Reprinted with permission of IDNR/Outdoor Illinois magazine and the original author. This article appeared in their October 2008 issue. Story and Photos By
Joe McFarlandOne summer day when I was a boy, my father walked out into the middle of the front yard and placed an empty coffee can in the grass. He then called me outside.
"Now then," began my father's rite-of-passage speech. "Before you can be a fisherman, first you must learn how to cast properly."
My father handed me a fishing rod and reel. The coffee can was to be my target. If I could consistently cast a fishing lure into the can from across the yard, I would become, according to him, a great fisherman. "It's simple," my father said. He made a few graceful sweeps of his arm to demonstrate the technique. Then he went back into the house.
For years, I had dreamed of being a great fisherman. It was my destiny. At last, my initiation day had arrived.
I stared at the target, imagining the perfect fisherman's cast. Many times, I'd rehearsed this precise ritual in my mind. Leaving nothing to chance, I bent over and picked up a few dry grass clippings and let them fall to the ground, noting the air current. Closing one eye, I sighted down the fishing rod, as one might examine a pool cue for straightness. It was perfect.
Positioning my feet squarely, I raised my official casting arm and pointed the rod skyward. I licked my finger to test the wind once more. The new life I'd always imagined was clearly ahead of me--and it would be a great life, a famous life. I saw myself on Saturday afternoon fishing programs, accepting giant trophies following major bass tournaments I'd won easily, with cameras flashing, women smiling and showering me with champagne.
I was 7 years old. This was my destiny.
With pure confidence, I swung my arm and unleashed my first cast. The line swished, the reel spun. History was being made. Yet, somehow, something astonishingly different happened.
There was a quick motion in the tree across the yard...behold a snag. My lure dangled hopelessly like a failed parachutist suspended in a tree. To retrieve the lure, I pulled the line tight, but it broke--ping!--and so did my heart. Defiantly, I tied on a new lure.
Within 10 minutes, I realized I had the remarkable ability to cast a lure perfectly into any branch on any tree, a trick I could perform, even with my eyes closed.
Occasionally, my father would glance up from his newspaper and look out the window to see a tree branch swaying. The high-pitched whine of fishing line being stretched filled the neighborhood. It reminded me of those incredibly sad country songs, the kind that make grown men cry--yet still beg to hear every note.
This was not the life I had imagined, but I was hooked. Each cast offered a fresh opportunity for redemption and the chance to land a perfect cast and claim my title. Yet, all heartbreaks begin with the promise of a happy ending, and following each new cast, I would always hear the tragic sound of country music.
Eventually, my farther walked slowly out into the yard, head bowed. He looked up at the waving branch in the tree and put his hand on my shoulder. Both of us stared at the tree, as if it held the last of something.
"Just like Hank Williams," my father said quietly. And then he went back into the house.
Weeks passed, I continued practicing, determined to improve my skills. Yet, the heartbreaking sound of fishing line stretching, then snapping, became the soundtrack of my life.
I began to listen to country music, sympathizing with every heartbreaking verse. Broken hearts, broken fishing poles--their tragedy was mine. "So true," I sobbed. "So true."
And then one day, I managed to hit the coffee can. The lure rattled like a chain being dropped. Then I hit the can again--twice in a row. It felt good.
Wiping away tears, I declared myself an expert, my sadness lifted. After weeks of heartbreaking trials, I decided I finally was ready to go fishing.
Balancing my fishing rod across the handlebars of my bike, I immediately rode to Lake Makanda, where I proudly stood on the shore and demonstrated perfect casts, one after another. It was the best day of my life. The sun was shining, and fishermen waved at me from their boats, tipping their hats. A light breeze carried fragrant scents across the water. Everything was perfect.
Suddenly, the water exploded in fury. I saw a huge mouth and dark eyes. On my first day of fishing, I was about to land a monster largemouth bass. It was as if everything finally was coming together. The line screamed from the reel, growing more intense as the bass charged for deep water. It leaped, flipping, then again shaking wildly, as the line stretched and whined. And then the bass leaped once again, twisting and pulling, with its mouth opened wider still.
I was having visions of grandeur when, all of a sudden, the line went ping! The sounds trailed across the water, and, immediately, the fishermen in boats removed their hats and began to cry, the birds ceased to sing, and the skies darkened. I will never forget that day. Yet, I was hooked for life.
I now have spent the majority of my life making casts that ended in tearful tragedy. I've also spent many years listening to country music, enjoying the same results. Last summer, I drove down to Tennessee to find out why.
Even if you've never heard of a bass fisherman named Don Helms
(left), the sound he makes with his favorite musical instrument--the steel guitar--is unmistakable. It turns out, this 81-year-old bass fisherman is none other than the last surviving member of an outfit called Hank Williams and the Drifting Cowboys, as in
the Hank Williams, country music's legendary, long-departed pioneer.
Although Williams died back in 1953, at the age of just 29, the haunting sounds Helms played in the studio more than 55 years ago continue to make generations of listeners, including fishermen, break into tears.
A short distance from Nashville, I walked up to a pleasant-looking house and knocked on the door.
"Can I help you?" a smiling man answered. It was the man himself: Don Helms.
"Tell me something," I said to him. "Was Hank Williams a good fisherman?"
Immediately, the smile disappeared from his face, and his eyes narrowed. He waved me in and closed the door.
"Let me tell you about fishing with Hank Williams," Helms said, each word increasingly tense. "There's something you should know."
For the next hour, Helms revealed what had been unspoken for decades. Occasionally, his wife, Hazel, would set down her crochet needles and peek through the curtains to see if anyone was watching. The secret ingredient of country music was at stake.
It turns out the man who recorded "Your Cheating Heart" and "I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry" was a crappie fisherman--a truly annoying crappie fisherman. When Williams would ask Helms to go fishing, he'd make Helms drive for hours up to Kentucky Lake, while Williams slept. The trouble would begin the moment they hit the water.
"Hank liked to use the biggest minnows he could get," Helms recalled. "The problem was that you'd have to duck every time he cast because he was all over the place. He'd rear back, slap you in the face with a big minnow, then say something like, 'Why don't you watch where I'm casting?'"
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Country-music pioneer Don Helms (right) explains
the mystery of tangled fishing line to writer Joe McFarland.
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Helms, the bass fisherman, fumed in the front of the boat. As each fishing trip progressed, anxiety built.
"Hank didn't own a boat, but he owned an outboard motor," Helms said. When the two musicians would rent a boat at Kentucky Lake, Williams would take control of navigation duties, always maneuvering the boat in his favor, sometimes jamming Helms into brush. Lines would tangle--then snap. The heartbreaking sound of their own music became the soundtrack of their fishing trips.
Finally, at the end of the day, Helms would drive the car back to Nashville, while Williams slept again. "Wanna go again tomorrow?" a refreshed Williams asked after they arrived. He was a hooked fisherman, and so was Helms, who continues to fish for bass today. Yet, the man who continues to play heartbreaking sounds on his beloved Gibson steel guitar has never landed what all fishermen dream about: one monster trophy bass.
"The biggest I ever caught weighed 5 pounds," Helms said, dabbing his eyes. Then he put his hand on my shoulder and said, "Fish long enough, and eventually you'll cry, too."
So true...so true.
The author of this article included a note at the end of his original piece that said Don Helms died in Tennessee on Aug. 11, 2008, at the age of 81. Shortly before his death, Helms received a draft of the author's work and was able to provide additional details of his fishing trips with Hank Williams.
"Not every fishing trip with Hank was that bad," Helms told the OI staff writer, Joe McFarland. "We had some good times."
Incidentally, the "soft" photos with this story are only a reflection of the fact I had to make second-generation scans of the photos that appeared in the magazine article, all of which were crisp. --Ken
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